The Library
by twounderscorethreefour
Summary: A collection of oneshots, each taking place in the Park County High Library. Style, Candy, Bunny, Creek, and others. Taking requests.
1. Style: Dust

Very slightly verging on smut. But not quite there yet, because I'm afraid of writing it badly and screwing it up. Lol. It will probably be disturbingly rushed as it is.

You definitely don't have to read Digital Papercut to get this. Like, not at all. But if you get the references, that's super awesome.

I think I'm going to have a subtle plot line here, if any at all. Various pairings, unrelated oneshots. The most consistent thing here will be the location, which is the Park County School Library. Because I think libraries are sexy. Shut up, I know I'm weird. Lol.

Thought I might have a go at Kyle's POV. Tell me if it's alright, I've never written him before and I'm nervous.

Not much dialogue here, either. I'm sorry!

* * *

It's dusty.

The entire library is coated in a thick layer of dust, the kind that floats into the atmosphere and becomes visible under the thinnest beam of light. But other than the dim and hardly efficient florescent lights, the only source of radiance is the giant window perched above the lonely bookshelves. Not that it serves much of a purpose, though – the weather here is almost all clouds and snow. Except in July.

But it isn't July, it's October. It's October and the temperature is already dropping to below freezing, which dries out the air and as a result leave my hair a thick mass of uncontrollable coiled frizz. I should probably get it cut, but I can't be bothered. I've got far more important things on my mind.

Like school, for one thing. I'm hardly athletic and not artistically talented enough to take up any sort of instrument, so I need to rely on academics to get me by. Admittedly, I'm not a retard. Not by a long shot. But that doesn't mean I don't work hard to get top marks in school. In fact, sometimes that still isn't enough. I'm still ranked second.

Do you know who's at the top of our class? Wendy Testaburger. I'm not sure how she does it, but her studying methods prove to be incredibly efficient. I'm only a few points behind, and I'm beginning to suspect that her warming up to our professors has something to do with her impressive GPA. Teachers don't seem to like me very much, because I prefer a challenge. I like debate. I'm not afraid to correct them if they're wrong.

And I don't like it when they try to embarrass students into paying attention. For example, calling on them when they don't know the answer or seem unfocused. I understand that they'd prefer having the luxury of every student's undivided attention, but let's face it – at such a big school, it's very unlikely.

I'm not allowed to voice this, however. I really don't see why the faculty here derives any sort of pleasure from enforcing strict punishment as well as handing out demerits. In fact, being punished for taking advantage of my constitutional rights is nothing but unlawful. Do you know what I got for pointing that out? You guessed it, another demerit.

What's even more ridiculous is that, although Wendy's equally as opinionated and headstrong as I am, she's always compliant. Her self restraint and manipulative talent really are impressive, as much as I hate to say it. And if Wendy didn't use it to her advantage, I might still have some respect for her.

I'm nearly certain that you already know the story, especially considering how relentlessly the student body gossips (even if said gossip is regarding their president). Long story short, she blackmailed my best-friend-boyfriend-hybrid into allowing her to go to the school's homecoming dance with me. Given the choice, I would have gone with Stan. Then again, well. I wasn't given the choice.

It all worked out for the best, though. Eric Cartman (yes, _that_ Eric Cartman, is there another that you know of?) ended up as her date. I think they might actually be a couple now; I don't know. I don't particularly care, either. The single result of the whole Homecoming Episode has been that Wendy and I no longer meet together to study.

Because it would just be awkward now. And sitting alone in such a big library is kind of a downer, to be honest.

You couldn't imagine my elevating feelings of ecstasy when the double doors open and Stan saunters in, a thin scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

"Kyle. Ready to go?" He asks. I've got a few textbooks open in front of me; I've yet to pack up (or even notice the room's dimming luminance as the sun hid behind the mountains). Since my falling out with Wendy, Stan has been driving me home after football practice – and as he builds muscle and strategizes for the next game, I memorize flashcards in the library.

"Yeah, just a sec." I answer and begin to pack my books into my canvas bag. Actually, I should have left almost an hour ago – luckily, the librarian is careless enough to leave without checking if the study area is still occupied (and, conveniently, never bothers to leave the door unlocked).

But before I can continue, Stan snakes an arm around my waist and murmurs, "No. I can't wait." This isn't the first time this has happened; Stan frequently grows impatient, and is often cursing at my no-making-out-in-cars policy. Because, really, everyone and their mother gets it on in cars. It's trashy.

I tug on the ends of his scarf and pull his face closer to mine before grabbing his lips with my own. He tangles his fingers in my hair, and I immediately feel self-conscious about the wiry consistency of my ocher curls.

He deepens the kiss, and my insecurity suddenly becomes unbelievably minor as I wrap my arms around his neck. Slowly but surely, I extend my tongue and feel the tip of his tongue poking the tip of mine. Without hesitation, our tongues are caressing eachother. With a misplaced sense of humor, I note that my own tongue is a better dancer than I am.

Our kissing speeds up, and I can taste wintergreen mint on his breath. As our pace quickens, so does his breathing, and through my own half-lidded eyes, I can see that Stan's are becoming wider.

He turns from me and sputters, a series of deep coughs racking his frame. He promptly reaches for his inhaler and ravenously gasps in the medicated aerosol. Some of the vapor escapes his lips, and Stan is looking at me sheepishly.

He apologizes and I can hardly fathom how it can be so endearing when such a handsome guy is rendered so vulnerable. With an ironic smirk, I weave my fingers through his, ruffle his ebony tresses, and pull him from the library.

Fucking dust.

* * *

Sorry, this was short. Like, really short. TOO SHORT, ACTUALLY. I feel bad, but there isn't much I can do.

Did you like it? Was it okay? Not steamy enough? If there was something you liked, I'll include it in the next chapter! If there was something you didn't like, then I'll leave it out. JUST TELL ME IF YOU LIKED IT, OKAY?

Should I write more?


	2. Candy: Tension

I only like Wendy when she is with Cartman. Again, first time writing from her POV. It might be similar to Kyle's because I'd imagine that they have a parallel thought process.

Tell me if you like it, because I'm still not quite sure. I have a feeling it might be upsettingly cliché.

* * *

My boyfriend's ignorance is beyond exasperating, and frequently has me seething. This instance is certainly no exception.

"You're impossible!" I exclaim, and feel my face flush as various students pass us, their eyes glued to mine and Cartman's argument. I see the librarian exit her professional domicile (likely on her lunch break) before grabbing his thick wrist and pulling him through the double doors of the library.

"God damn, Wendy." Cartman scoffs in a way that only furthers my immense frustration. He knows that his casualty during a fight is what irritates me the most, which he uses to his advantage more often than not. "Calm down, will you? It isn't even a big deal." He jerks his arm from my grasp.

"Not a big deal? _Not a big deal_?" I holler. "Cartman, you _sabotaged _my plans to better student funding. You _know_ how hard I've been working on that!"

He shrugs. "I thought it would be funny."

I hate the way Cartman is the only person to ever render me furious enough to lose control. So many things about him are absolutely infuriating, but his immensely negative qualities have no impact on the contradicting attraction I have toward him. In fact, they may only add to it. He has a sort of inexplicable control over me, and he knows it. Because I can't stand to be away from him, despite our frequent livid disputes.

I voice another insult, and he calls me a hoe before launching some ridiculous monologue that characteristically appears obscure. However, Cartman has the most peculiar manner of speaking and persuading that actually makes most of his arguments seem valid.

But I'm through with his games, and I shove him against a bookcase and slam our lips together – if only to shut him up. With an irritated grunt, he complies and places his hands on my waist.

I have always valued my independence and ridiculed the desperate way most women thrive for attention from the opposite sex. I hate how they only seem to authorize their very existence if they have "another half", and then insist on being treated equal to men. But how can you treat one as an equal if you're always the one paying for dinner, making the first move, setting up dates, protecting them, calling them first –

Don't get me wrong; chivalry _is_ appreciated. I'm not some sort of distorted anti-girl, adamantly denying any signs of gentlemanly behavior. Of course not. I'm just impartial to the hypocritical way most women act as if they're a "prize" to be sought after, but then consider it demeaning to act anything other than entirely useless in a relationship. If anything, it's demeaning to be treated as something delicate that needs protection.

I may not be particularly intimidating externally, but let me assure you that I am far from delicate.

I tug on his carefully styled russet locks, effectively tousling his hair from its previous state of untailored perfection. Against my lips, he mumbles a protest and calls me a hoe, but my tongue instantly silences his.

Eric Cartman is so annoying. He's so bigoted and manipulative; his intolerance creates unnecessary riots on a daily basis. It's as if everything wrong with society is contained within his person, but God _damn_ he is good at this.

* * *

I'm not too thrilled with this, actually. I think I need more practice with Cartman and Wendy.

I should also make them longer, and with more dialogue. Do you think?

Or was this okay?

WHICH PAIRING WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE NEXT?


	3. Creek: Interruptions

This won't be as T-Rated. I think the last two were too formally written – I don't know if it's because of the characters I chose or what, but I can't work with that writing style, it seems. Also, they started out with a lot of rambling and ended with making out. Lame, lame. Supersuper lame. NOW I'M CHANGIN IT UP, YO. Or, at least I'll try.

I love you for reading this, oh my God.

* * *

I think one of the reasons I'm the only person that can tolerate being around Tweek as much as I do is my nonchalant exterior. Really. To anyone else, his frequent spaz attacks would seem unnerving and constantly startling, but even when some fucker _does_ sneak up on me and freak me out, you can't tell.

Although I might seem emotionless and uncaring, I'm actually quite passive. Yeah, I know I'm always in trouble. The resident "badass", if you will. But if you want to know the truth, I just _don't care _about most shit, because I realize most of what happens won't matter long term. Sure, I'm along for the ride, but that's just about the extent of my "adventures".

Well, save for Tweek. Clyde teases me and says I'm more like his babysitter than his boyfriend – always looking out for him, protecting him, calming him down when he gets too worked up. But I don't fucking do it because I have to; I do it because I want to. I don't _have_ to do anything, fuck you for thinking I'd give into peer pressure.

Tweek is always shaking. He's always biting his fucking lip. When we kiss, sometimes he'll nibble on _my_ fucking lip and it's fucking delicious. Fuck. There will be times where I just want to jump on him, but I don't because that would be inappropriate and I'm a demerit away from suspension. Do you know what would happen if I got fucking suspended? Tweek would flip shit.

Kind of like he's doing now.

"Oh God, oh Jesus! This project, man! It's due next period and I can't get another D because if I get a D my dad will be disappointed and he won't give me any dinner tonight and I'll have to kill a squirrel for food and then I'll get rabies and I'll die! Argh! IDON'TWANTTODIE, CRAIG! IT'S TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

"Fuck, calm down."

He's surrounded by books. Some of them are books on Vietnam Protests, which is what we're actually studying, but most aren't even loosely related to the subject and I can only assume that he grabbed anything from the Vietnam War section. His hand is shaking so much that he rips a page while trying to turn it, and he shrieks.

"Oh, GOD! WE'RE GONNA GET BANNED FROM THE LIBRARY!"

I calmly slide the book from his grasp to the edge of the table and slam it shut before setting it under the table. "Nobody has to know," I shrug.

"They'll check for fingerprints!" Tweek insists. Fuck, this kid is psycho. It's hot.

Every part of him is trembling. His head, his hands, his legs, his mouth. He does that fucking lip nibbling thing again when I kiss him; I don't bother holding back a moan. Reflexively, he emits a sort of alarmed squeak and pulls back. God damn it.

"Craig!" He scolds in a gritty, partially stifled voice. "Not right now! Jesus, what if the librarian sees us and you get suspended? You can't get suspended, Craig!"

"Chill out, I'm not gonna get suspended for kissing my boyfriend."

Tweek is ridiculously frail. He's even smaller than that ginger fag, Kyle Broflovski. It's probably because Tweek rarely eats; he's too scared of food poisoning. His diet consists of coffee. Plain black coffee, which is exactly what he tastes like – hollow and overwhelmingly bitter.

I love it.

His eyes are darting around as I kiss him, constantly keeping watch for the fucking librarian. She probably isn't even here; he has no reason to freak out. But he does anyway, and when the faint sound of footsteps reaches our ears, he yelps and pulls back sharply.

"C-Craig!" He sounds so alarmed, and scrambles for his notebook – as if trying to look studious would falter the suspicions of our supposed eavesdropper.

Fucking hellfire, I doubt they'd care anyway.

* * *

Craig is so horny. Why is Craig so horny? I DON'T KNOW, GO AWAY. Lol.

Ending was lame. I suck. Fffff. I don't think I'll be adding much more to this series. Maybe two more installments, if that. I'm not really feelin' this like I thought I would. And I'm on such a fucking Stan/Kyle fix right now. I want to jump out of my skin. It's crazy, and I need to write them more.

WHAT DO YOU THINK I SHOULD DO. HELP ME.


	4. Bunny: Heat Wave

God. It is SO HOT where I live right now. It was like, 50 degrees last week and now it's NINETY SEVEN. And my school doesn't have air conditioning. I'm writing this to get my mind off of it (and to avoid listening to my lecture, lol).

I really love to write in Kenny's POV. It's so natural for me. Hm.

* * *

South Park is fucking retarded. I swear. A few days ago, there was snow on the ground – seriously, it was like, thirty degrees. It's almost one hundred out now, and God knows that nobody would bother to invest in air conditioning in a place like South Park. There's snow on the ground eleven months out of the year.

The fucking library is the only place even remotely cool. There are fans going and the librarian's got a nice mini fridge that emits cold air – nevermind that she's a fucking hypocrite for bitching whenever someone brings food into the library.

Whatever, I can't even complain about her right now. Because it feels do goddamn _nice_ in here. I'm surprised that nobody else knows this place is a great hideout. It's even nice and dry. Because, you know, it's always dry as fuck in South Park – except today. Huh. Try putting a huge bowl of water in an oven and step inside if you'd like to simulate the weather here right now.

I'm not kidding.

I had to ditch my parka. Obviously. It's a nice shelter from the regularly frigid climate here; hell, it even keeps my _face_ warm. But dude. Just looking at a garment with long sleeves is enough to overheat me in these conditions. Seriously. I'm in shorts. Which is saying something, because I hate my pasty sticklike legs. They're not as chalky and rail-like as Kyle's, but they're still pretty bad.

Hey, well. At least the chicks have brought out their tiny denim shorts – for those of them who wear them, at least. It's a bit unfortunate in some cases (I'm looking at you, sophomore-with-cellulite-in-green-shorts), but having Red and Bebe to look at makes it all worthwhile. Even when skinny chicks like Esther and Annie show off their bony white knees.

You know who looks good today? Butters Stotch. I love that kid. He's my favorite. He's got these cute light blue shorts and a fitted graphic t-shirt – it's so kiddish and innocent looking; kind of appealing in a weird way. Not like I'm into little kids or whatever, but um. Well. All I'm saying is that Butters doesn't look half bad.

And I tell him that every day! Butters and I hang out a lot, just because he doesn't have too many people to talk to and he's usually naïve enough to make himself a victim of Cartman's bullying. And I like Butters, you know? I can't just let him get antagonized on my own friend's behalf. I was always around Cartman anyway; it was just a matter of time before I started defending Butters. Right?

Yeah, I thought so.

He appreciates it too, I can tell. He'll invite me over every weekend, and he lets me talk to him when I'm having issues. When my parents fight or I get kicked out, I'm always welcome to crash at his place. And when I do, he makes me breakfast in the morning. It's really nice.

Especially because of how much I like spending time with him.

When he enters the library all flushed and shit, I feel myself grin. Involuntarily. Is that what happens when you like a person? They just… make you smile? I wouldn't know.

"Hiya Ken!" He greets. "Boy, it sure is hot out today. Kyle wasn't kidding when he said the library was n-nice and cool!"

"I know," I reply as he sits next to me. "I've been skipping classes all day just to sit in here. Can't believe they expect us to learn in this heat."

Butters shakes his head; I know he doesn't approve of my borderline truant-like habits. But come on. It's like ninety five degrees out. I'm not fucking accustomed to it.

"You know you shouldn't do that, Kenny – what if s-someone catches you!"

So naïve. I ruffle his hair. "I doubt anyone notices, Buttercup." Buttercup. It's almost like a pet name. "If anything they probably assume I'm dead for the day."

I'm pretty sure that Butters doesn't like it when I joke about my consistent dying, like how Stan's bothered when Kyle refers to his health so casually. But come on; why not make the best of a bad situation? Crying about your problems sure as hell doesn't make them go away.

I feel Butters shiver next to me, and I casually wrap an arm around him. In a friendly way. I do this all the time. It isn't romantic. Really.

"Cold?" I assume.

"A… a little," He answers sheepishly, and I pull him closer.

Then I feel myself wishing the librarian would point a few more fans in our direction.

* * *

MEH THIS WAS ALRIGHT. I'M TOO HOT TO THINK. OR LIVE.


End file.
